Do You See Me?
by DiaDuitCluaiste
Summary: Sherlock has a troubled teenage daughter that he seems to hate and love at the same time. When she comes back, will he change? WARNING: Will contain some vague self-harm/suicide themes later on. Also my first Sherlock fic. Review a wannabe writer?
1. Chapter 1

**Note to re****aders: YOU DON'T HAVE TO READ THIS PROLOGUE IF YOU DON'T WANT TO. IT WON'T AFFECT YOUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE FIC. This was as a request from an anon. And this is just the prologue. That won't make any sense whatsoever. But that's the point. Enjoy anyhow. **

**_TRIGGER WARNING_ for those self-harmers out there. **

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><p>PROLOGUE<p>

The letter shook in her hands and the words reverberated in her head – high risk procedure – fifty-fifty chance of survival – poppet, _don't worry_. She touched her mother's signature, the familiar swirls and turns, but she could read no further than _don't worry_. It meant nothing to her. How could it? The words swam blindly through the darkness in her head and her glazed eyes searched hopelessly for something she couldn't see. It was no use. She turned from the small audience that had gathered before her and pushed through the door without a word. No one uttered reassurance – no one knew.

She walked down the busy corridor and the world seemed to be in slow motion. Each new face merged into the one before. To her, there was no difference between one person and the next and they passed by her without impact. She climbed the stairs. She couldn't hear her lonely footsteps, but, from the effort she was exerting and the weight of her steps, they should have been making some kind of noise. It was a slow procession – a funeral march. She reached the landing and continued down another path. The wooden panelled wall on her right and the soft country view from the windows on her left felt different somehow. But it wasn't the world that had changed. Students ducked in and out of the rooms lining the panelled wall. It was Friday; some of them went home for the weekend. Her own door was closed. It swung open with a groan of long-suffering pain.

The room was dark and empty. Four of the five beds were stripped and her roommates were absent – gone already. Her eyes remained dry as she shut the door and leant her forehead against it. It's cold wood burnt and it didn't take long for it to bring her back to the real world, the unforgiving reality of the letter still in her shaking hands. Now the world was utterly silent. The noise of the corridor didn't reach her and she listened to the sound of her own breathing. It was unsteady and difficult and she panicked. Her breaths got faster and soon her eyes were wide with fear.

In wild distress she tore away from the wood she had pressed herself to and threw herself at the trunk at the end of her bed – the one in the corner. She dug through text books and clothes and various objects until she reached the bottom. Her heart in her mouth, she froze. She stretched and pulled the tool out. Letter in one hand and the small knife in the other, she shut the lid of the trunk and placed the letter on top.

Her movements were slow again. Her frantic desperation had all but disappeared, but her breathing was still irregular as she tugged back her left sleeve. Her pale skin glowed in the dim light and the knife glistened as she pressed it to her wrist. She could feel it itching – do it, do it, do it. She looked back up at the letter and that was all it took. She drew the knife quickly across her skin and it ripped her open. With a groan, she let her head fall to the trunk she was knelt before. The knife dropped and clattered to the floor.

From a distance, it may have looked as if she was praying – her head bowed, her eyes shut and her right hand clasped to her left wrist. Her breaths shuddered through her body. She whimpered as the pleasurable pain coursed through her like warmth.

She cried.

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><p><strong>As you can see, it is currently nonsensical. Please understand that I am studying for my A levels and have mucho coursework to do, not to mention various personal problems, so this might be a very slow-moving fic. Any feedback will be welcome as I am an aspiring writer. I'll post chapter two straight away so that you don't get bored.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Note to readers: This is a short one to get us going. You may also notice that I love flashbacks and video recordings. It's somewhat of an obssession. And hurrah for confused!John, all chiseled out of marshmallows.  
><strong>

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><p>John sat in his armchair and twiddled his thumbs. Nothing was happening. No case, no visits from Mycroft, no cryptic messages – nothing. Though he hated to admit it, he was bored. It felt alien, sitting in the flat with all the time he wanted, to do whatever he wanted. He'd typed up all his notes, none of the cases they had been offered were more than a three, and Sherlock was out wandering. John was free to do anything he liked. He could go out for a walk. No, the rain clouds looked particularly threatening today. He could call up that girl he had met at the library. Kate? Bella? Anna? Or was it Annabelle? Well, that was a no then. He could just stay inside. Yes, he liked that idea.<p>

He'd never actually had a chance to explore some of the more cluttered areas of the flat and he felt it was high time he did so. John stood up and wandered over to the bookcase on the left of the fireplace. The books were nothing he hadn't seen before, but on the top shelf there was an assortment of interesting looking boxes. Deciding on the top box, so as to prevent a collapse of the other boxes, John reached up. But being shorter than Sherlock by several inches, he had a little trouble reaching it. As soon as he began pulling, a smaller case that had been perched on top of the box fell on his head.

Cursing under his breath John picked it up off the floor. It was a video tape. It wasn't damaged surprisingly; it was only bearing the marks of time. The label on the side was written in Sherlock's handwriting and read, 'Camcorder Clips – 80s and 90s'. Smirking, John meandered back over to the TV. He plugged in the video player and stuck the tape in, falling back into his chair as the image on the screen loaded up.

At first, it was nothing but white noise, but after a few seconds it blacked out. Suddenly, a little boy appeared on screen. John recognised him at once as Sherlock. The detective had hardly changed at all; his dark hair and distinctive cheekbones were the same as today. The picture was fuzzy and soft around the edges and the date at the bottom of the screen was virtually impossible to read, but he couldn't have been more than about five or six, seven at a stretch. He was stood alone in the middle of a large garden. The general chatter of adults hummed in the background and a group of children played near the fence.

But Sherlock ignored all of this, swinging about a large stick as if fighting invisible attackers. He leapt about carelessly for a few moments until a young, beautiful woman standing near the side called to him.

"_Sherlock, darling, why don't you play with the other children?_" Sherlock didn't stop his game, but his head shake was clearly aimed at her. Judging by the woman's dark hair and hauntingly similar complexion, John deduced that she must have been his mother. A young Mycroft stood by her side obediently. Suddenly, Sherlock let out what can only be described as a battle cry and charged straight into the midst of the group of playing children, still swinging his stick about wildly.

Some of them screamed and one little girl began to cry as she ran back to her mother. John watched with an open mouth as who he assumed was Sherlock's father strode over, grabbing the boy by the collar of his shirt. He shook him furiously.

"_You only had to behave like a normal boy for one afternoon and you couldn't even do that, could you, you little brat. You are nothing more than a little _freak _that deserves everything that's coming to him._" Mr Holmes dragged a silent Sherlock towards the camera, now addressing the person stood behind it, "_Oh, mother, do switch that dratted thing off._"

"_How? I can't even work the blasted contraption._" The old voice said in response. The camera turned downwards and there was a lot of loud fumbling. Little Sherlock came into view and he looked up into the lens. John's heart almost broke at the dejected look on his face and his tear filled eyes. The screen blacked out.

John had a only a matter of seconds to contemplate what a brute Sherlock's father was – and perhaps who he had inherited his stubbornness from – before the next clip began to play. There were several short ones in a row, mainly of Sherlock and Mycroft. They gradually became older throughout the course of the next five minutes of film. One of John's favourites was of a teenage Sherlock preparing to go to his school dance. It was blindly obvious that he had no choice in the matter and he seemed particularly put off that his mother had picked him a date, an attractive girl, but nothing that interested the young detective.

John had laughed until he was crying as Mrs Holmes forced her son to give his date, Lara, a kiss, which he eventually planted clumsily on her cheek. That was the last clip on the tape. But the one clip that stayed in John's mind was the first one. Sherlock's loneliness – his isolation – and the way his father had called him a freak. No wonder he disliked that name.

He was just about to switch the TV off when another clip began to play. A glorious shot of a shining floor came on screen.

"_Is it on?_" It was Sherlock's mother; John recognised her voice.

"_Of course it's on, mother._" A deep, silky voice replied that could only have been Sherlock's.

"_How can you tell? It looks rather dead to me._"

"_The red light is flashing_." Sherlock pointed out in irritation. The camera moved upwards and focused in on the detective's face. The date on the bottom of the screen read 'March 1995'; he must have been about twenty, give or take a few years, "_I still don't see why you feel it's necessary to film this. It's hardly an achievement._" The focus adjusted a little more and John noticed the determined frown on Sherlock's young face.

"_Don't be silly, darling. I want the world to see my first grandchild._" John choked on the tea he had been sipping. He had better have heard that wrong.

Sherlock continued to look indifferent as he led his mother down a hospital corridor a few paces. He took a sharp left into a private room. John's heart was in his mouth as the bottom of a bed came into view, then someone's legs beneath the covers, and then a young woman – Lara. But that was hardly the most shocking thing. She was holding in her arms a tiny, new-born baby. Sherlock stood by her side, looking at the baby's face, his own almost lacking in emotion.

"_Hold her, darling, hold her._" Mrs Holmes encouraged her son.

"_Why? I'll have plenty of opportunity to do that in the future._"

"_Oh, Sherlock, just do it._" He glared her stubbornly, the exact same expression he had worn when she had told him to kiss Lara all those years ago, "_What are you so afraid of?_" That convinced him. Determined not to be classed as scared, he perched himself on the bed beside Lara and carefully lifted the baby from her arms.

At first he cradled her awkwardly, his expression still set in stone. But as soon as he looked into the eyes of his child his face melted. John's mouth would've dropped even further open had it been possible. He had never seen Sherlock look with so much love on anything in the world, not even his violin or his cigarettes. It was incredible.

"Where did you get that?" Sherlock's voice didn't come from the video – it came from the doorway. John jumped out of his skin, switching the TV off in a panic and standing up to face his roommate.

"I thought you were out." He said weakly.

"You went through my belongings."

"What – no. I found it in the bookcase." John had no idea why he was so nervous. He wasn't guilty – if Sherlock wanted to keep things private he should hide them better – but the look on his roommate's face made him feel as if he was in the wrong, "Sherlock, I would never-"

"Sloane Square." Sherlock interrupted him.

"What?"

"We have a case at Sloane Square." The detective repeated. John was seriously confused.

"Aren't you going to explain the tape to me?"

"Why? You should never have watched it in the first place." Sherlock answered plainly, "As far as I'm concerned this conversation has come to an end. Get your coat." And with that, he left the room.

John stood in shock for several moments. His head was still reeling from everything that had happened and everything he'd seen. Surely – no. But Sherlock would've – no. Had he missed something? A hint? A huge hint? It certainly felt like it. Why had Sherlock kept it from him? They were friends, weren't they? It wasn't like John was generally nosey, but this had to be an exception. What _was_ Sherlock so afraid of?


	3. Chapter 3

"Approximately thirty years old, not actually married – she just wears the ring, perhaps for protection, judging by the treatment of the ring and its value." Sherlock began, "Natural skin tone suggests direct Mediterranean descent and upbringing. She's clearly a housewife; keeping her nails short would allow her to work efficiently, avoiding the fuss of keeping them manicured, and the fact that she isn't wearing any makeup implies she's also a busy mother, possibly to an infant, but it's more likely a child of about three or four, that much is clear from the bags under her eyes – minimal. With a baby she would be up half the night, but she looks fairly rested, although not entirely."

"Says the voice of experience." Muttered John, suppressing his smile as Sherlock sent a glare in his direction.

After claiming that he had approximately seven ideas, Sherlock told Lestrade that he needed time to run a few tests before submitting his final theory. He was granted that, and he and John stopped at a small café nearby for a late morning breakfast. Sherlock didn't eat, it was only John who ordered a few slices of toast and some baked beans.

"Only seven ideas?" He teased.

"Six." Sherlock answered as he gazed out of the window.

"Maybe three?" John took a slip of paper from his pocket and Sherlock sat up, taking it from him and opening it up eagerly. There was a train ticket inside but the detective discarded it, "I found it in her pocket, but I forgot about it."

"_Better murder an infant in its cradle than nurse an unacted desire_." Sherlock read aloud.

"William Blake."

"Very good."

"What does it mean?" John asked, taking the paper from Sherlock to look at it himself again. It was a scrap torn out of a newspaper – some advert about car insurance – and on it was stuck the quote, made up of letters cut out of magazines. Classic.

"Did I not tell you that she was a mother?" Sherlock replied triumphantly, standing up.

John shovelled down the last of his baked beans and tossed his napkin down onto his plate. Apparently oblivious to the traffic, Sherlock darted across the square, followed closely by John as they made their way back to the Royal Court Theatre, where the body had been found, and headed straight back up to the upstairs studio stage. They ran past a confused Lestrade on their way.

"Sherlock, what-"

"The stage," The detective cried over his shoulder, "Has anyone searched the stage?"

"Not properly. We haven't had time." Lestrade replied, following the two men into the studio. Sherlock ran past the woman's body and leapt onto the stage. John watched as he ran backwards and forwards across it, searching for something.

"She knew that the murderer was after her child as soon as she saw him and so she came in here."

"Why here?" John asked.

"Train ticket in her pocket – unused. She was going back home by the tube but he was right behind her. At rush hour in the crowds she could easily by ambushed and this theatre was the only safe place she could think of to hide her child."

"Hide? Sherlock, what are you talking about?" John asked, becoming increasingly impatient. He didn't have to wait for long. Sherlock dived on the stage and began clawing at the wooden floorboards. He wrenched it open.

"In the dark, the murderer wouldn't have seen the stage. He would never have thought." Sherlock plunged his arms beneath the stage and pulled something out. It was a little boy.

The detective carried him over and thrust him into John's waiting arms

"Voila." John gaped at his roommate.

"How?"

"What, so I'm no longer the voice of experience?"

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><p>John and Sherlock stood at the side of the road, watching the little boy being put into a police car. Lestrade came up beside them.<p>

"Alright, how did you figure it out?" He said reluctantly.

"The note – wasn't it obvious? She sacrificed her life for her son."

"But why did he want to kill the boy?"

"He was the result of an affair, he was the evidence and he needed to be destroyed. Make inquiries into her family and you'll probably find she left her native country after being accused of having an affair with a married man, most likely high up in social ranking – it wouldn't have been so scandalous otherwise." Sherlock said plainly, turning to John, "Are you hungry?"

"I just-" John started.

"I'm hungry. This is boring." The detective turned on his heels and marched away. Shooting Lestrade an apologetic glance, John followed his companion to the cab waiting by the side of the road.

They travelled home in silence, not even making eye contact. It wasn't an awkward silence, and John could see that Sherlock was deep in thought. They arrived back at their flat and the detective threw himself into his chair. John approached him slightly more warily and took the seat opposite, after removing his jacket.

"Well, that didn't last long." He remarked casually, "Your quickest case probably."

"Boring," Sherlock replied, "Mundane. I need something interesting to keep my mind going."

"To keep you from thinking about what happened this morning." The detective glared at his roommate and John almost half-laughed, "I haven't forgotten. And I won't, you know."

"Why must you concern yourself with trivia?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Trivia?" John cried incredulously, "Triv – Sherlock, you had a _baby_! An actual, real life _baby_! And you never thought to tell me?"

"You never asked."

"Well, of course I never asked. I thought… I thought you were a…"

"Does it really make you that uncomfortable?"

"I thought you were," John continued in hushed tones, "A virgin."

"We all make mistakes." Sherlock said flatly, "And while I don't make them often, it seems that, when I do, they are on a rather colossal scale."

"Yeah." John agreed with a sarcastic laugh.

They fell into a heated silence. Sherlock's expression was as unreadable as ever, but John got the distinct impression that he was a little upset about the way he was being questioned. It was, after all, a delicate subject, perhaps even for the most seemingly heartless of people.

"Was it a boy or a girl?" John asked gently.

"Girl." Sherlock answered. There was nothing different about his tone. John tried again.

"What did you call her?"

"Pandora." This time there was a slight hint of emotion. Pride? Affection? _Love_? It was difficult to tell, but John nodded his head in approval anyway.

"That's a nice name. Beautiful, actually." John's comment elicited a small, supressed smile from his friend, "Who does she take after?" For a moment, John thought he might have pushed it a little too far. Sherlock stood up suddenly. He fumbled around in his pocket until he found his wallet and sat down, passing John a scrap of photo paper from inside it.

Turning it the right way up, he smiled almost involuntarily. It was only a few inches big, but the worn photograph held within its borders a sight which John would never forget. It was a little girl: Pandora. The background was unclear and minimal, but she smiled so widely and honestly that he could have sworn that the paper was actually warm. She was only about seven and her rounded face was pale and rosy cheeked. Her dark waves fell about her face and past the bottom of the photo, and her ice-blue eyes glittered intelligently – Sherlock's eyes. In fact, they looked so similar that it almost felt like a second embodiment of the detective was looking up at him from within the frames of the picture.

"She looks a lot like you."

"Of course she does." Sherlock all but snapped, "I'd prefer it if you kept quiet about this." It was an odd request.

"Why?"

"_John_." The detective said imploringly. John paused, studying his friend's face.

"Alright," He agreed, "But know that you're finally trusting me with something no one else knows, and that puts me in a position of power."

The uncomfortable expression on Sherlock's face was almost worth it.


End file.
